


May All Your Days Be Merry And Bright

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by Frozen (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, I’m fine, it happens all the time,” Clarke lies. In fact, it hasn’t happened since she was sixteen, and accidentally struck Wells in the heart with her powers. </p><p>Bellamy looks unimpressed. “Glass doors just randomly explode all the time?”</p><p>“More often than you’d think.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	May All Your Days Be Merry And Bright

**Author's Note:**

> idk blame Jess.
> 
> title from White Christmas. i prefer the michael buble one, but you do you.

Clarke takes the job at the ice cream shop because she makes responsible choices. The café was the better offer—more hours, more pay, closer to her dorm room. But Clarke chose ice cream, instead, because _she’s responsible_.

And, for the first few months, everything goes fine. She’s a hit with the customers, because she’s quick and after years of her mother’s fancy dinner parties, she knows how to small talk.

There’s also the added benefit of being able to freeze even melted ice cream, with one wave of her hand. But, obviously, nobody knows about that part—except Wells, but Wells doesn’t count, really.

She even starts to learn a few tricks with flipping the cones, and doing neat designs with the swirl nozzles. Her tip jar nearly overflows most days.

But Clarke got hired in the height of summer, when they had lines of people trailing out the shop, desperate for a snack to keep them cool. Even in autumn, most days were warmer than not, so the store was still pretty popular, if a little less crowded.

But now it’s the last week of November, and Clarke hasn’t seen a customer for three days.

She’s not really worried; her manager had warned her it might happen, and told her it wasn’t a big deal, since they made more than enough during the summer to cover the off-season. Plus there were a few stragglers every now and then, or pregnant women with cravings, or little kids who didn’t really care that there was six inches of snow outside—they just really wanted their cotton candy with sprinkles.

And to be honest, Clarke actually prefers all the down time. She can catch up on some of her reading for Econ, for the upcoming winter finals, which are always a nightmare.

She’s neck-deep in her textbook, when the bell above the bell chimes, and she glances up with a frown. She’s expecting Monty, who sometimes visits her when she’s working, because he likes coding in the massive lounge chairs set up in the lobby.

But instead, it’s a boy she’s never seen before. He could easily be a student, or maybe older—it’s hard to tell. He’s wearing an enormous wool coat, black with little white flecks of snow all over his hair and shoulders.

“Can I help you?” she asks, and the boy makes his way over.

“Do you have hot chocolate?” He sounds weirdly serious about it, and Clarke frowns.

“Uh, no. We have ice cream. We’re an ice cream shop.”

He squints down at her a little, mouth turning into a tight line. “What kind of ice cream shop doesn’t have hot chocolate?” he asks, clearly confused, and Clarke squints back.

“The kind that only serves ice cream?” She turns to point at the blackboard menu hanging up above her, where she’d written WE ONLY SERVE ICE CREAM! in chalky orange cursive.

For his part, the boy at least looks a little chastised. “Sorry, it’s just—my sister said you guys had hot chocolate.”

“Well, maybe she mixed us up with the coffee shop down the street,” Clarke suggests. It happens more than she’d like, since their names are so similar: Some Like It Soft, versus Some Like It Hot. The owners have been in a passive aggressive war since she’s worked here, over who had which name, first.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Clarke’s expecting the guy to just head down, to continue the quest for hot chocolate, but then he pulls out his wallet instead. “So, how much for a cup of chocolate ice cream?”

She sort of wants to tell him there’s a big difference, between chocolate ice cream and hot chocolate, but a customer’s a customer, and she probably shouldn’t try to get him to leave, no matter how much she prefers solitude.

So she takes his money and makes his change and then grabs one of the cardboard kiddie cups from under the table, before turning to the bin of ice cream. The chocolate is one of their most popular, so it’s almost all gone, and Clarke has to reach in to her elbow, to scoop the last bits.

Except, then she glances up—it’s just a reflex, okay? She’s not _trying_ to check him out—and sees him taking his coat off by one of the tables. That in itself wouldn’t be that impressive—okay, so he’s hot, big deal, it’s not like she’s never seen another attractive person in her life—but then he takes off his sweater too, which drags the hem of his shirt up a little, so she can see inches of tanned skin and abs and the v of his hips bones and—

Behind her, the glass freezer doors burst, glass completely frosted over. Clarke jumps, startled, and goes to drop the cup, except it’s stuck to her hand, which is frozen, with little icicles dangling from her skin.

“Fuck,” she grumbles, as the boy rushes over, looking concerned, which she just does _not_ need, right now.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” He studies her face, looking for injuries, while Clarke hurries to stuff her hand in the bin, so he won’t see.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it happens all the time,” she lies. In fact, it hasn’t happened since she was sixteen, and accidentally struck Wells in the heart with her powers. It had been a mess—they’d had to call one of the witch doctors her mom knew, and Anya was _not_ pleasant.

The boy looks unimpressed. “Glass doors just randomly explode _all the time_?”

“More often than you’d think.” Clarke can feel her hand starting to melt, finally, and sets his ice cream down on the counter. The edges have freezer burn, and she glares at it until the little bits of frost dissolve.

“O-kay,” the boy drawls, and she knows this is where he decides she’s either crazy, or weird, and should be avoided. He’ll go pack up his things and eat his ice cream on his way to the coffee shop, where he can drink something warm and work on his intellectual film blog, or whatever.

But instead he says “Let me know if you need help, or something. Broken glass is no joke.” and then takes his ice cream over to the table he’s marked with his coat, pulls a worn paperback book from his bag, and starts reading.

He’s right, broken glass _is_ no joke, and it doesn’t help that since he’s still here, Clarke can’t just whip up a winter wind to blow the shards into the trash, or something. She has to actually _sweep_ , which is always a nightmare, and she has to step really carefully, because Converse soles are honestly the worst.

But eventually she gets it all cleaned, and moves the contents of the freezer towards the back, so they’ll stay frozen, and then sends a text to her boss, explaining what happened.

The boy stays until closing, which is something Clarke’s never had to deal with before. But when she awkwardly waves at him with the store key, he just nods and starts to put his coat on.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks, half in and half out of the door. He’s letting the cold air in, but it’s not like Clarke minds.

“Positive,” she says, and he looks ready to add something else, before thinking better of it, and leaving.

Clarke’s roommate is a quiet girl named Maya, who’s majoring in Poetry, and has a bunch of posters of Gothic cathedrals taped up above her bed. She’s nice enough, but she and Clarke aren’t really close. To be fair, Clarke isn’t really close to anyone except Wells, and Monty from her freshman bio lab—and only because he sort of forced himself upon her, because he thought she needed friendship.

And, for the most part, she’s okay with not having a big social group. But that also means she doesn’t have anyone to tell about the hot chocolate boy, and what happened, except Wells, and Wells is at Harvard, three time zones away.

So instead, she just tries to forget about what happened; it was just a fluke, anyway. She has way more control over herself, now. She’s not about to start the next ice age because of a _boy_. That’d be ridiculous. And besides, she’s never going to see him again, so it’s not like it _matters_.

He comes back the next day.

This time, he orders mint chocolate chip, which is actually Clarke’s favorite, and she actually studies him for a minute, trying to decide if he somehow knows. She decides that he doesn’t, and rings him up, and he eyes the freezer, taped over with cardboard, suspiciously before going back to his table.

He stays the whole night again, and then when she says she has to close up, he stacks the chairs on the tables with her, before leaving.

He doesn’t say anything, beyond a polite hello and his order, and a small wave when he walks out the door. She doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know anything about him, but that doesn’t stop the windows from icing over when she sees he’s wearing reading glasses this time.

She’s getting worked up over _reading glasses_ —she needs to get a grip.

On the fourth day, Clarke thinks _what the hell_ , and heads over to his table. He’s reading again—he’s always reading, and it’s a different, well-worn book each time—and there’s no one else in the shop. There hasn’t been anyone else in the shop for hours, so she’s pretty sure she’s safe.

“So are you ever going to tell me your name?” she hedges, sitting across from him with her own scoop of mint chocolate chip. She’s using a cone, because she’s a traditionalist. She eyes his cup of melting toffee-nut ice cream with distaste; he likes to let it get all soupy and then _drink_ it, which is, as far as Clarke’s concerned, sacrilege.

She’s stopped freezing it for him, though, so it’ll melt faster. She isn’t sure he’s noticed.

He looks up, surprised, like he hadn’t heard her walk over, and his ears go red. “It’s not like you’ve told me yours,” he argues, grumpily. Clarke points at her nametag and he grins a little, like he didn’t really mean to. “Point. I’m Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she shakes his hand over the table, and then gestures at his book with her cone. “What is that?” It’s in a different language, but she can’t tell what.

“ _Othello_ ,” he grins, for real this time, and she narrows her eyes at him. “It’s in Tagalog.”

“Cool,” she says around a mouthful of ice cream. “So no luck on the hot chocolate front?”

Bellamy flushes a little, fidgeting, and Clarke hates how much she likes watching him squirm. Bashful has never really been her type, but it looks good on him. He’s like, bashfully grumpy. It’s cute.

“I don’t mind ice cream,” he says, petulant, and she looks at his cup of liquid cream, pointedly. “I just don’t like having to chew it,” he explains. “I have sensitive teeth.”

Clarke chokes a little on her own. “Sensitive _teeth_?”

He glares at her a little, but the effect’s sort of lost. “Shut up.”

He helps her close up again, wiping down the counters while she mops the floor, and it’s—nice. Companionable. She’d sort of forgotten what that was like.

“See you tomorrow, Clarke,” he says, as she locks the door, and she has to pull her hand back when the glass starts to crack.

“Yeah,” she says, a little strangled, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “See you.”

It gets easier after that, to hand him his ice cream and then sit across from him, teasing him about whatever book he’s brought, or essay he’s working on. He’s a linguistics major, apparently, with a focus on ancient languages, and the night he starts conjugating Latin to her, the window beside them explodes.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, sitting up again. He’s flung himself over to cover her as best he could, which was sweet but unnecessary. Clarke just blew the glass back while his eyes were closed, so it wouldn’t touch them.

“Told you,” she says, sighing, getting up to fetch the broom. “It happens all the time.”

Clarke hasn’t really thought about seeing Bellamy outside of the shop—they go to the same school, so it’s not like it’s _impossible_ , but. The campus is pretty big, and he’s two years ahead of her, and in a whole different major, so it’s not like they share many classes.

But then Maya manages to catch her before she leaves their dorm, and invites her to one of her wine club meetings. The club is made up of Maya and a bunch of her poetry friends, who like to have picnics out in the graveyard across the road, and quote Alan Ginsberg a lot. Mostly, they all just meet up in some woods or the basement of a church or something and get drunk on merlot and cry about the Beat Generation.

But, Clarke’s been to a couple of the meetings by now, and it’s honestly kind of funny, watching them all fall over themselves, a drunk version of the Dead Poet’s Society. Plus, Maya doesn’t really take it all that seriously, so she and Clarke usually make up a drinking game, about which classical poets would beat which in a fight.

And it sounds like the sort of thing Bellamy might enjoy too—he’d probably bring a whole new round of poets from Ancient Rome and Greece into the mix, and it’ll be great. So, she mentions it.

“I’m going to a party tomorrow night,” Clarke says, easy, because she is smooth. And _party_ sounds better than _wine club meeting in some cramped basement so they can feel like vampires_. “It’s open invitation,” it’s not technically true, but she knows Maya won’t mind, and the rest of them don’t really matter. “If you want to come.”

Bellamy looks a little bit thrown, which is fair. They’ve never mentioned hanging out outside of this setting, and now Clarke’s wondering if they never did, for a reason. What if he only stays to chat with her out of boredom, or pity? Like Monty—who has been staying away from the ice cream shop ever since he walked in on Clarke wiping a streak of whipped cream across Bellamy’s cheek—who thinks she doesn’t have enough friends?

“I didn’t think you liked parties,” Bellamy says finally, careful, and Clarke shrugs.

“I don’t _dis_ like them. The drinking games are neat.” She kicks her chair legs a little, while Bellamy thinks over the words. “You don’t have to,” she adds, smiling so he’ll know she’s not upset. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t want to hang out more. She doesn’t want to make him feel bad about it.

“It’s not that,” Bellamy grimaces a little, and Clarke braces for the punch. This is the part where he turns her down, and she hasn’t even asked him out, yet. “I—I’m not the best at parties,” he admits. “I used to—I just. You should have fun with your friends, seriously, and I wouldn’t help with that. But if you ever want to hang out at the library or something, let me know.”

It’s still a _no_ , but it feels a little different. Less like he was turning her down, and more like he was turning himself down on her behalf. Clarke just hums, shrugging, and finishes off her ice cream.

“Tell me more about your weird theory on Gaelic,” she says, nudging him with her foot, and he grins, clearly relieved by the turn in conversation. She’ll let it go, for now, but he pointedly didn’t say he wasn’t interested, and she’s going to come back to that soon.

The air around them grows so chilly they can see their breath, and Clarke clenches her fists until the nails dig little half-moons into her skin. “I’ll go check the thermostat,” she sighs, small puffs of clouds escaping from her mouth, and Bellamy nods, reaching over to toss his jacket over her, even as his teeth chatter.

She’s definitely coming back to that.

It’s the second week of December, when another customer shows up. There have been a few, obviously, but mostly during the daytime. Bellamy’s really the only one who shows up after dark, so he’s who Clarke’s expecting when she’s taking inventory in the freezer, and hears the doorbell chime.

“Okay, so I have some cappuccino you _need_ to try,” she calls out, grinning in spite of herself. She’s given up trying to convince herself that seeing Bellamy isn’t the best part of her day. “I know you hate coffee flavored anything, but this shit is—” She stops short when she reaches the counter and sees that it’s not Bellamy. Or at least, not _just_ him.

Bellamy’s told her about his sister by now, so it’s obvious the pretty brunette beside him is Octavia. She’s grinning widely at Clarke, wider than anyone should really be able to, while Bellamy looks like he’s in pain.

“Uh, hi,” Clarke starts, hesitant, and Octavia’s words bubble out of her, like she’s been holding them in for too long.

“That cappuccino one sounds great! Bell’s so _boring_ when it comes to flavors—” there’s a mild protest from her brother, which she ignores. “I’m Octavia, by the way. I’ve heard a lot about you, and since my brother’s really bad at making friends, I wanted to check it out for myself.”

Clarke hasn’t really given much thought to Bellamy’s social life—he’s attractive, and _insanely_ smart, so she’d sort of figured he had at least a core study group or something, that got together and talked about Ancient Rome the way some kids played Dungeons and Dragons. But he also spends most of his evenings hanging out at an ice cream shop, and he hadn’t even spoken to her for the first three days, so it doesn’t really surprise her that he doesn’t have many friends.

“And what have you decided?” she asks, polite, and Octavia’s grin somehow _widens_. She looks like she’s trying to show off all of her teeth, which. Well, they are very nice teeth. If she wasn’t Bellamy’s sister, Clarke would ask her out.

Except, she probably wouldn’t, and she hates it. They haven’t even _talked_ about it, haven’t even hinted, but Bellamy spends all the good date nights hanging out with her, and Clarke’s been careful to mention she’s single, whenever it wouldn’t seem obvious. But he still hasn’t asked.

“That you’re definitely invited,” Octavia says, and Bellamy groans, beside her.

“O, seriously.”

“Invited to what?” Clarke asked, ignoring him, and he huffs.

“To our Christmas cabin getaway!” she says, like it should be obvious. “A bunch of us all got together and rented one of those hunting lodges up in the mountains for three days over Christmas. And we’d love for you to come.”

“ _Octavia_ ,” Bellamy grumbles, and glances over at Clarke, looking even more grumpy and flustered than usual. “I told her you’re probably spending the holiday with your parents, or something.”

“No parents,” Clarke shrugs, because it’s only fair. Bellamy’s told her about his mom, who died when he was seventeen, and about his dad, who died before he was born. He told her about growing up with his grandmother in the Philippines, flying back to see her each summer, the relief he felt when she offered to take in O.

She was already going to tell him about her parents, soon. She’d alter the story a little, take out the parts where they left to see if they could find a cure for her powers, or some way to control them a little better. She’d leave the part where they never came back, and no one ever found out why. She’ll probably never know.

“Cool, we can make a club, for orphans,” Octavia decides, and reaches over to bump Clarke’s fist. “So, anyway. I’m having a party tomorrow at my boyfriend’s house.”

“He’s not your boyfriend _yet_ ,” Bellamy points out, smug, and she elbows him in the ribs.

“I’m having a party tomorrow at my soon-to-be-boyfriend’s house,” she corrects. “You should come!”

Clarke blinks at her a little. “You don’t even know me.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, as if to say _that’s your only reason?_ “Yeah, but if you come, then Bell will have to come, to make sure none of my friends hit on you.”

“They can hit on whoever they want,” Bellamy says mildly, but no one is fooled. His neck’s going blotchy. Clarke isn’t sure how someone so tan can blush as much as he does, but apparently he can.

“What time is it?” Clarke asks, which Octavia must count as a victory, because she fist pumps the air. She’s clearly eighteen and new to college, and it’s cute, how she’s trying to help her brother get laid.

Clarke wouldn’t even say no, if he offered, but. He hasn’t offered.

But she’s not about to turn down a party, just because Bellamy moves too slow. Clarke doesn’t really go to many parties, but when she does, she tends to dominate them. She is the _best_ at drinking games.

“Eight,” Octavia grins, rocking up on the balls of her feet. “Just text me your room number, and we’ll pick you up!” She hands her phone over, and they each put in their numbers before switching back. “Okay, I have to go meet Lincoln—the almost-boyfriend,” she adds, for Clarke. “Bye, nerds!” She’s completely obvious about it, but Bellamy just looks amused.

“Sorry,” he sighs, turning back to her, offering a wry grin. “I know she can be a little—intense.”

Clarke shrugs. “I liked her. She’s cute.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrow. “Please don’t hit on my sister, it’d be weird.”

She smiles, reaching over to ruffle his hair while he frowns. “Don’t worry, Bellamy. I only hit on people I’m planning to date.”

He ducks away from her hand, and she can see he’s debating whether or not to say whatever comes next. “Anyone in particular?”

He’s trying to be smooth about it, and Clarke ducks her head to hide a ridiculously goofy grin.

“Yeah,” she says. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Octavia’s dorm is across the campus, so Clarke texts her fifteen minutes before eight, to give them time to walk over. Maya’s out for the night, and Clarke’s not a hundred percent sure her dress is casual enough for a college party, but. It’s red, and flattering, and it shows off her boobs, and she’s really hoping to see a few jaws drop, tonight.

There’s a knock on her door right on time, but when Clarke opens it, there’s only Bellamy, looking nervous and uncomfortable in her hall.

His jaw doesn’t _completely_ drop, but it’s a near thing, and still very satisfying. Clarke knows she’s smirking, but she can’t really help it. “You clean up nice,” she says, because he does.

Bellamy shakes his head a little and smiles, soft and private. “You too. Ready?”

She folds her hand in his as they walk across the campus, and her stomach starts to flutter when he squeezes hers back. The grass beneath their feet starts to frost with each step she takes, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

The party is at one of the co-op’s, at the edge of the school grounds. It’s a little two-story that shouldn’t be able to fit the hundred or so people inside, spilling out from all different directions, and when Clarke peeks into the backyard, she sees an entire living room set moved out there, presumably to make room.

Octavia greets them almost instantly, like she sensed them or something. She looks even hotter than the day before, in her crop top and jean skirt, while Bellamy is clearly _not_ looking at her. She seems happier too, dragging Clarke around by the arm, introducing her to everyone—there’s Lincoln, who she recognizes from a couple of her art studio classes; and Miller, who apparently takes some criminology course with Bellamy; and Raven, who’s majoring in astrophysics, which is strangely something that Clarke can discuss with her, since it’s all Wells really talks about these days. There’s Jasper, who’s either the hired bartender, or just an alcohol aficionado—standing with Monty and Maya, of all people.

“I didn’t know you knew Octavia,” Maya says, only slurring a little, with pink cheeks. “I guess I should’ve—she knows everyone.”

“Actually, I know her brother,” Clarke says, and Monty gives her a knowing look, waggling his eyebrows. She steals his solo cup, in response.

“Ah,” Maya says, sage. “Broody brood,” she gestures with her cup, and Clarke turns around to find Bellamy just a few feet away, clearly trying to seem like he’s not watching her.

“Yeah,” Clarke grins, worrying her lip a little, before shooting back Monty’s drink. She makes a face; it’s silver tequila, which she hates. “The broody one’s mine.”

Jasper gives her another weird mixed drink before she leaves, because that’s apparently his hobby, so Clarke’s stumbling a little when she makes her way through the crowd. Bellamy catches her easily, and lets her lean against him.

“I thought you were good at parties,” he grins, and she makes a face at him.

“I never said that, you just assumed,” she argues. “Also, I may have pre-gamed,” she admits. “Maya keeps wine in our mini fridge, and I didn’t want to be sober.”

Bellamy goes from teasing to concern, impossibly fast, and Clarke bites back a smile. He wants to take care of her so badly that it gets in the way of him hitting on her. “What happened? Why don’t you want to be sober?”

“Liquid courage,” she smiles. “I’m fine, honest. I just—you didn’t seem interested. Or, you didn’t think I was interested, so I was gonna make the first move.”

She watches his throat work a little, as he thinks of what to say. “Have you made it yet?”

Clarke grins, fitting her hand back in his, and feels enormously satisfied when his fingers curl around hers immediately. “I’m working on it.”

Bellamy’s about to say something else, when someone calls his name—a girl, young and tipsy, giggling with her friends across the room as they all wave at him. He waves back, distracted, and Clarke looks up at him, amused.

“I thought you _weren’t_ good at parties,” she teases, but he looks so earnest and serious about it, that she tugs him out the back door, to sit on the corduroy sofa. It’s the exact shade of orange that nobody wants anything to be. Clarke curls her legs up under herself, and Bellamy sits down beside her, stretching an arm so she can lean into his side.

“I used to go to these things all the time, my first year,” he starts, and he’s still fidgeting, still clearly embarrassed, not sure how to talk about it, so Clarke throws an arm around his stomach, so he’ll know she isn’t leaving. She can feel the air getting cooler around them, and hopes he blames it on the weather. “I’d get so drunk I blacked out, and wake up in some girl’s bed, or with a girl in my bed, and I’d be so hungover I couldn’t get through class. I almost failed out, actually, it got so bad. I was still messed up about my mom, and O was across the world with my grandmother, and—I was a mess, really.”

“What changed?”

He grins down at her, so warm she can nearly feel it. “Indra. She was one of my professors that year, for _Klallam and Other Lost Native Languages_. I unloaded on her by accident, and she basically told me that if I didn’t get my act together, I’d never be able to take care of anyone, let alone Octavia. I’d be just like all the other deadbeats I saw growing up.”

“Harsh.” Clarke tightens her hold, arm shaking when he chuckles. His hand is rubbing little circles into her arm, and she’s wearing her jacket so she can’t actually feel his skin, but it makes her shiver anyway.

“But necessary,” he shrugs, and then smiles down at her. “I’ve told you basically all of my tragic backstory,” he teases. “But you haven’t told me anything, really.”

Clarke hates how anxious she gets; after all, it’s not like he’s going to ask if she’s the one magically causing all the windows around them to explode, but. She still worries. She still locks up in fear sometimes, thinking about it, about what might happen if her secret got out. She can’t handle another Cage Wallace, who was the reason her parents left in the first place. A _scientist_ who wanted to study her for _research_ —they’d barely stopped him in time.

“What do you want to know?” she asks.

“Anything you want to tell me.”

“Everything,” she says, a little breathless, because in the night his eyes look so dark they could swallow her, and they’ve been leaning steadily closer for a few minutes, now. “But I was hoping to make out a lot, first.”

Bellamy laughs, leaning down to brush his mouth against hers. “I was planning on asking you out,” he teases. “On a real date and everything. I figured I probably should before the cabin, so if you turned me down, I could just not go.”

“But instead now we get to make out for three days at a cabin,” she chirps, and he kisses her, firm and messy, before pulling back.

“That might have been another part of the reason,” he admits, and she curls her arms around his neck.

“I wasn’t finished,” she grumbles, kissing him quiet, turning to slide into his lap. She runs her fingers through his hair like she’s wanted to for weeks, and grins when he moans into her mouth, low and wanting. His fingers are digging into her hips and she’s _grinding_ against him, like they’re teenagers making out on her mom’s couch.

He huffs a laugh against her neck, licking the skin there. “Your hands are always so _fucking cold_.”

Clarke freezes, just for a second, before leaning back in, letting him mold her. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Poor blood circulation.”

Bellamy pulls back to stare at her with heated eyes, mouth swollen. He takes her hands and holds them up to his mouth, breathing hotly on her fingertips. “I can warm you up,” he offers, voice hoarse, and they scramble up so he can lead her to his dorm room.

They get breakfast the next day, and Clarke heads back to her own dorm, for a change of clothes, and her toothbrush. He tucks his hand into her hair and kisses her in the doorway, so she’s grinning the whole walk home.

She calls Wells once she sees that Maya’s still gone, and he picks up on the second ring.

“I was wondering if I’d ever get to actually speak with you again,” he muses. “How’s the ice cream shop boyfriend?”

“He’s an actual boyfriend now,” Clarke chirps, and Wells whoops in congratulations. “And we’re great, thanks.”

“Awesome. And we’re still on for Christmas?”

Every year, when their campuses close for Christmas Break, she and Wells stay in a nice hotel room for the week, switching between their respective cities. This year, it’s Clarke’s turn, and Wells is flying into Portland in two days.

“Actually, about that—his sister invited me to a cabin for three days. I’m going to ask if you can come too.”

“You don’t have to,” Wells hums, and she knows it’s true, that he’d never begrudge her for going, but Clarke can’t stand picturing him alone on Christmas. Not when he’d always made sure she didn’t have to be.

“Don’t be an idiot, of course I have to. And if they say no, you and I will get a hotel room, and I’ll see the boyfriend when he gets back.”

“When did you get everything so figured out?”

Clarke flops back on her mattress to stare at her ceiling. Her hair is stiff and tangled from rolling out of bed that morning, and throwing it up on her head. Her eyelashes are clumped together with last night’s mascara. She’s pretty sure she has no less than _five_ hickeys along her shoulders and neck, and her bra is digging indents into the skin of her back.

“Don’t be so sure; I still haven’t told him about the ice thing.”

“You’re going to?” He doesn’t sound upset, so much as surprised, and a little worried. With good reason—besides Wells and Cage fucking Wallace, the last person who knew about her powers was Lexa, and she did not take it well.

“Yeah. I figured—it’s probably better to let him know upfront, right? Before a year goes by, and then when I tell him and he freaks out, I get my heart broken. Right now I only _like_ him, you know? It’d be so much worse if I loved him, first.”

“I get it,” Wells says, and she knows he does. He always has. “Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be there in two days, try not to cause a blizzard.”

“Easier said than done,” she grumbles, because it’s not like she _means_ to make everything around her shatter, or grow icicles. It just _happens_ , especially around Bellamy, and she’s not really sure what that means.

“I believe in you,” Wells says, and hangs up.

She texts Octavia about Wells, and receives _yes duh the more the merrier!!! tell him 2 bring booze!!_ in response, so she figures it’s alright.

Clarke’s planning to tell Bellamy after the cabin, so she’ll at least get three decent days of making out and being domestic, before he freaks out and runs. She’s thinking maybe New Year’s, or the first day back at school. She’ll slide him his usual cup of ice cream, and then touch her hand to the cup, making it turn into a solid chunk of ice. Or maybe something cute, like a little pattern in the ice. A heart or snowflake or something, to ease him into it.

But the universe seems to have something else in mind, because on their first day at the cabin, everyone wants to go sliding around on the frozen lake out back. Portland doesn’t actually get that much snow in the winter—it rains too much, so everything just turns to gray city slush—but the cabin is far enough in the mountains that the earth is plush and white and crisp; the picture of a white Christmas. Everything looks like a holiday greeting card, or one of those Hallmark specials.

Nobody has actual ice skates, and anyway, none of them really know how to skate. But sliding around on the soles of their shoes doesn’t take that much talent, and they make a game out of knocking each other over.

Wells is fitting in a little more seamlessly than usual, which is nice to see. Clarke was actually worried about it—of the two of them, he’d never been the most social. He’d always felt like he had to protect Clarke and her secret, which meant he never really did much for himself, when they were growing up. It wasn’t until he got accepted into Harvard, and she realized _he didn’t plan on going_ , that Clarke finally put her foot down.

And now she’s watching him wobble and flail around, with only Raven holding him up, because apparently Raven is full of surprises and played ice hockey at the Y when she was in high school.

Octavia, meanwhile, is proving to be the perfect host, not even letting her plot to hook up with Lincoln distract her. She's apparently decided that Clarke and Wells are in need of some hodgepodge family, and she has taken it upon herself to provide it. She, Monty and Jasper made gingerbread men in the enormous fancy kitchen earlier, and decorated them with that gross tube icing, to look like each member of the group. It was a little bit creepy, but mostly fun, getting to eat each other.

Bellamy had made his cookie kiss hers, smearing the red goo of their cookie mouths, all over their cookie faces.

“My cookie likes yours,” he’d whispered, breath warm on her ear, and Octavia had thrown a tea cozy at them.

“Keep it in the bedrooms!” she’d ordered, wrinkling her nose, like she hadn’t just been cuddling up her cookie-self to Lincoln’s.

They only stay on the lake for about an hour, because why would they keep bruising themselves on the ice and freezing to death, when they have a veritable armada of alcohol to keep them warm, inside? Everyone trickles back into the cabin, until it’s just Clarke and Bellamy.

He goes to head in with the others, but Clarke tugs a little on his arm. She’s wearing a pair of giant fuzzy mittens, even though she doesn’t need them, and slowly tugs them off.

“Clarke?” Bellamy grins a little, confused. He thinks she’s going to try to jump him on the ice or something, which, she’s not saying she _wouldn’t_ , but just because she can’t get hypothermia, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“I have something to tell you,” she says, and she’s not sure why she’s _so sure_ that this is the moment, but she is, and she tries to follow her instincts whenever possible. Bellamy just watches as she pads over to pick up a handful of snow.

She forms a perfect ball, and he looks ready to duck when she turns back to him, so she grins as she slides over. “I’m not going to throw it at you.”

“Not _yet_ , you mean,” he says, skeptical. “You’re waiting for me to let my guard down.”

“Trust me,” she says, and it comes out a little desperate, because—she _really_ hopes she’s not wrong about this.

She brings the snowball up to her mouth—not because she needs to, but. So she has a little flair for the dramatic, so what? It’s not like she gets many chances to show off—and breathes out a stream of cool air, until there’s a heavy, solid ball of ice in her hands, with a pattern of icy swirls circling around it, so it catches the light a million different ways and gleams.

“Whoa,” Bellamy says, but when she looks up, there’s no fear or malice. Just wonder, and a little delight. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning, who’s just discovered Santa is real.

“Can I?” he asks, reaching an arm out, and she nods, letting him take the crystal in his hands, turning it over and over, almost reverent. “So, this is why your hands are always cold?” he asks, grinning down at her.

Clarke lets out a laugh that’s part sigh of relief, and moves in until she’s pressed up against him. He switches the ball to his left hand, so he can curl an arm around her. She snakes a pale hand up to cup his cheek, and he shivers at her touch. “And if it is?”

Bellamy dips down to press his lips to the tip of her nose, and then turns his head so he’d kissing her palm. “I’ll still warm them up,” he shrugs, turning them back towards the cabin. He’s keeping hold of the crystal, and she’s not sure he’ll ever let it go. She doesn’t really mind; he’s got her in the other hand. “It just might take me a little longer.”

Clarke wraps her arms around him. She can smell hot chocolate from inside, and she knows he can too, because he perks up immediately, sliding his hand around hers and shouldering the door open.

She presses her lips, still cold, to his cheek. “I’ve got time.”


End file.
